Florrie and the Tinker Lad
by Ladybug21
Summary: Florrie just can't stop thinking about the bonny boy who kissed her at the bus stop to Perth.


Author's Note: All rights and characters belong to Elizabeth Wein. Also, my apologies for the frequent use of the derogatory term "tinker" throughout this story; it's told from Florrie's perspective, and I feel that she wouldn't be culturally sensitive enough to use the term "Traveller" in her internal narrative of events.

* * *

Florrie and the Tinker Lad

Brenda wouldn't stop giggling the entire bus ride to Perth.

"I still cannae believe you _kissed_ him," she at last had the nerve to whisper to Florrie as they sidled into an aisle of the darkened cinema. "A dirty wee tink like that!"

"Och, enough of that," Florrie scoffed at Brenda. "You said yourself that he was bonny as the day, and it's done no one any harm!"

Brenda, her rosy cheeks flushed, continued to titter throughout the newsreel. Once or twice, she nudged Florrie with a soft elbow, or leaned over to murmur teasingly in Florrie's ear, her bouncy dark curls tickling Florrie's neck. Florrie remained as scornful as possible. She rolled her eyes and pretended to be riveted by the footage before her: racehorses careening around a track, Japanese fighter planes buzzing through the air, and a dictator with a shiny badge pinned to his chest parading before a crowd of cheering Spaniards, their right arms all raised in a uniform salute. (Really, Florrie found it all incomprehensible. Cormac, one of the cleverer but less-attractive footmen at Glenmoredun, was always speaking passionately at her about global politics, but he might as well have been orating in ancient Greek, for all that Florrie understood or cared.)

Finally, the feature began; and finally, Brenda quieted down; and _finally_ , Florrie had a bit of time to herself to think. With the silver light from the screen flickering across her face, she slowly drew the tip of her tongue over her upper lip, no doubt smearing her lipstick even more than the tinker boy had already smudged it. He _had_ been very bonny, and she liked the cheeky fearlessness that he had exhibited as he had approached her, hands on his hips, a challenging grin flitting about his own tantalising lips. And the feel of his mouth against hers had felt _just like_ the mouths of the other one or two lads she had been bold enough to kiss. Remarkable. Florrie wasn't sure what she had expected, but it wasn't that a tinker boy's mouth should feel just like the mouth of any other boy.

Florrie was not nearly as avid a follower of the pictures as Brenda was, and this one was a gritty espionage suspense thriller set on the front lines of the Great War, with no singing or dancing or handsome young stars in sight. So she spent the rest of the show contemplating the tinker lad in the worn kilt, with his pretty smile and his white bare legs. She only turned her attention back to the plot when Brenda gasped melodramatically about something; she knew that those were the moments that Brenda would want to discuss after the show, and would expect Florrie to remember.

True to form, Brenda spent the next few days dissecting her favourite parts of the picture. She seemed to bring it up in virtually every conversation that she and Florrie had, as they shined silver and did up beds and swept floors. Invariably, Florrie was daydreaming about the fair tinker laddie whenever Brenda decided to once more relive the suspense of imagining that a Russian spy was in their midst.

"Crivens, Brenda, your head's full o' mince," Florrie snapped finally. "There's been no need for spies since the Great War, and we'll for certain ne'er meet one, so stop blethering on like a right bampot."

"Aw, shut your geggy," pouted Brenda. "And who're you to call _me_ a bampot? Least _I'm_ not the one who kissed a tink!"

It was a weak retort, but Florrie still flushed, wishing that she hadn't just been fantasizing about that very fact.

"Least _he_ was real," she countered, tugging a pot of polish out of Brenda's hand. "Not like your military spies. And he was a sight bonnier than any of the actors in that picture, too."

Glenmoredun Castle was readying itself for the Laird's Opening Day shoot, and all of the arrangements and meals had just been finalised when the morning finally dawned, warm and bright. Florrie was more than a bit drowsy, as she and Brenda had been up late assembling the non-perishable parts of lunches that would be loaded into baskets and taken out to the shoot. The two housemaids stifled yawns all day long, at least until the tinker woman turned up with her ponies.

"What's _she_ doing here?" muttered Brenda suspiciously, as she and Florrie peered out the back kitchen door. The woman was small and merry, and she was stroking the ponies on their long muzzles, murmuring lovingly to them.

"Come to beg for scraps, maybe?" sneered Florrie.

"Most like." Brenda nudged Florrie. "Think _she_ has any sons who need kissing?"

Florrie elbowed Brenda hard in the ribs, and Brenda drew back, squealing indignantly. (They were both too exhausted to tolerate any gentle jibes from one another.)

"Look!" hissed Florrie suddenly, and both girls sprang back to the door. Mrs. Menzies was striding across the yard, and with her was a stately woman whom neither of the girls recognised.

" _She's_ clearly minted," muttered Brenda, nodding her head towards the regal woman who had arrived with Mrs. Menzies. "But why's one of the shooting guests 'round the back?"

"Jean!" exclaimed the elegant stranger, embracing the tinker woman like an old friend. "How lovely to see you. And I owe you thanks a thousand times over for everything you've done for Julia this summer."

"Och, nae bother," laughed the tinker woman. "She's a fearless lass, your Julia. We've been glad to have her."

"Well, I'm sure she'll be delighted to see you today. Do you need help loading the ponies?"

"I should be able to manage by myself..."

"Oh, nonsense, it's no trouble to find a few spare hands." Mrs. Menzies's quick eyes spied her housemaids peering around the doorframe before they could bolt away. "Brenda! Florrie! Come make yourselves useful, will you?"

The two girls had time to exchange one bewildered look before they rushed across the yard to do their mistress's bidding.

Preparing the picnics for the shooting party out on the moor was busy work, and Florrie didn't have much time to observe the shoot—much less the strapping sons of nobles, who were expertly targeting grouse for the dogs and beaters to collect off the ground. At one point, however, as she trudged across the grass carrying a platter of cold meats from one of the ponies, Florrie spotted a cross-looking young noblewoman, who was standing arms akimbo amidst the incoming men. Florrie furrowed her brow appraisingly. The girl's face was flushed from the heat, and she had shed her tweed jacket so that her sweaty white shirt gleamed against the muted tones of her tweed skirt and the surrounding heather.

"Brenda!" Florrie hissed as Brenda arrived with a Dundee cake in one hand and a white tablecloth in the other. "Who's that over there?"

Brenda expertly snapped open the tablecloth and guided the rippling white expanse downwards onto the picnic blanket below.

"Her?" Brenda wiped her free hand across her sweaty brow and nodded in the direction of the scowling noblewoman. "Lady Julia Something-Stewart, I think. I overheard them saying that the ceilidh tonight is because she turns sixteen today—though I wouldnae say she's having a very good birthday, from the looks of things."

"Have we seen her before?" Florrie asked, narrowing her eyes.

Brenda set down the Dundee cake on the picnic blanket and tablecloth, then stood and shrugged. Florrie decided to let the matter rest, and between unloading the remainder of the food and chasing the dogs away from the cold meats, she had quite forgotten about Lady Julia not five minutes later.

After lunch, it was back to Glenmoredun Castle to unload the dirty dishes from the ponies and start preparing for the evening. At last, the ceilidh was well under way, and Florrie had a moment to breathe. She stepped out into the dusk-lit yard behind the kitchen to cool down from the soporific heat of the kitchen furnaces—and there, seated on a low brick wall across the yard, was the bonny tinker lad.

Florrie's heart seemed to stutter in her breast. Then, not quite knowing what she was doing, she charged across the yard towards the wall.

"You!" she shouted, pointing with an accusatory finger. "You've no right to be here!"

The boy started, and he quickly slipped off the wall.

"I'm so sorry," he said with a sheepish nod. "I just wanted to get a bit of fresh air before the next dance began."

The boy's speech had lost all of its Highland lilt, and every word now was said in the plummy tones of a young lordling from the south. No doubt he was mocking her, and _that_ Florrie simply couldn't abide.

So Florrie stepped forward and smacked the boy across the jaw again, so hard that he staggered backwards into the wall.

"What the—ah!" The boy winced, his hand gently working its way across the sore spot where Florrie's hand had left a pink tinge. "What the devil d'you think you're playing at?!"

"I could ask you the same question!" Florrie snapped at him, leaning forward with her hands on her hips. "Thought you could just sneak up here and hope to get a glimpse of everything that's going on, did you?"

"Truthfully, I'm not at all interested in whatever you're doing over here." The boy rubbed his jaw crossly. "And you really can't go around walloping people across the face just for sitting on walls, _especially_ when they've just apologised for being where they're not wanted and are clearing out. I've half a mind to tell Mrs. Menzies about all of this."

"I'd like to see you try! What are you doing here, then? Spying on me?"

"I took part in the shoot this morning," said the boy angrily, and Florrie supposed he might be telling the truth, as there had been a few tinker lads conscripted to load for the shooters. "And now I'm here with my sister and the rest of our family. And why on earth would I be spying on _you_? I've never seen you before in my life!"

"You sleekit minger!" Florrie was stung, in spite of herself. "Bold as brass, are you, then, to have kissed enough proper lassies that you can claim to have forgotten one?!"

" _Kissed_ you?" The boy's eyebrows flew up. "I certainly did not!"

"You did! That day Brenda and I were waiting for the bus to go to the pictures in Perth, remember?" Florrie stamped her foot, furious with the tinker lad, and with the fancy airs he was putting on, but most of all with the fact that he genuinely seemed to have forgotten her. "And you, in your mauchit auld kilt, had the gall to saunter up and _kiss_ me."

" _Did_ I?" The boy cocked his head to one side, giving her a bemused look with one hand still pressed to the sore side of his jaw. "I'm surprised I've forgotten."

"I'm surprised you have, too! Especially the way you were raging when I slapped you _then_." Florrie leaned forward slightly and sneered. "Good thing that ginger sister of yours was there, Davie-lad. A cheeky tink like you is bound to get himself into trouble with the law, if he carries on so."

Florrie reached out and gave the mystified boy a condescending pat on the unscathed side of his face. The boy stared at her for a moment, and then, as if the final piece of some mental puzzle had slipped into place, his eyes lit up and he began howling with laughter.

"What's all this?" asked Florrie, crossing her arms. She was inclined to slap the boy yet again, but it had had no real impact on his manners either time she had done so, to date. And so instead she watched irritably as he collapsed against the wall, nearly sobbing with mirth.

" _Shaness_ , Julie," she heard him chuckle to himself, and then he looked up at her and winked. "Aye, right, miss. I couldnae forget such a braw face if I lived a thousand years. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Before Florrie could stop him, the boy darted around her and, to her horror, headed towards the kitchen door. She dashed after him, calling for Mrs. MacIntyre, who reached the door at about the same time as the bonny tinker lad.

"Mrs. MacIntyre," said the tinker lad in his highbred voice, bowing slightly to her.

"Och, Master Jamie, get yourself back to the dance before your mother begins to wonder where you've gone!" scoffed the cook, stepping back to let him through and then shooing him off with her hands. She caught sight of Florrie a moment later. "All right there, Florrie?"

"Who _was_ that?" Florrie gasped, staring after the boy.

"That? That's Master Jamie Beaufort-Stuart, whose sister Julie is having her birthday celebrated upstairs."

" _Master_ Jamie?"

"Aye, Master Jamie—his granddad was the Earl of Strathfearn, you ken. His family's come 'round at least once a year, for as long as I've been in the Menzies' employ, so I've watched him and Lady Julie grow up from the bairns they once were." Mrs. MacIntyre smiled fondly.

"Oh," said Florrie. And she turned and walked slowly back to the kitchens, as dazed as if she were the one who had just taken a smack to the head.

That was the last that Florrie ever saw of Master Jamie Beaufort-Stuart. But Florrie stopped jeering at tinker folk when they passed by, just in case any more of them were actually the landed gentry traveling incognito. And she started making sure that she had _some_ idea of who any given boy was, before she kissed him (or slapped him). Brenda teased Florrie for her newfound caution, but Florrie simply tossed her head and ignored her friend. She'd be damned if she ever told Brenda that the bonny tinker lad was actually the grandson of an earl, and that even kissing him hadn't been enough to make her recognise it. No mistake could possibly be more embarrassing than _that_.

* * *

Author's Note: The film that Florrie and Brenda see in Perth is _13 Men and a Gun_ , a British film released in June 1938. The plot centers around 13 Austrian gunmen on the front lines of World War I, who are suspected of harboring an informant after Russian troops find and destroy artillery hidden nearby. The soldiers must identify the spy among them before the Austrian high command orders all 13 men executed.


End file.
